Black Market Mercurio (‘s part.. 10)

Oh I could have been a racist little bastard. Oh, but I said nothing until my heart rate elevated with jittery adrenals, and dribbled the echoes scratching scrappy places and faces in my back glances and looks all around; that never so much reached that coherence and distraction from the weakening sapped sinks stinging inside these squeezed muddy remains of the murky wasted uncoverings you now indulge my readers; ahhhh yet, from these homes and such; trying to familiarize myself to the class; the downstream current soaking, the dirty Eastside exhales from the breast of the elevators and refineries, from the SunOil plant dragged busy avenues, the lingers worn out consecutively via thoroughfares to a suburbia of areas unlike every part of movies and images that slipped by and through the end of the 20th century ….yeat hangon and grace not only the smaller East side surrounding, but finer towns like Woodville, the high school Dulante attended,
after his Dad developed his own tool and die shop and the family resituated away from that shack-like motor home set over this broken garage; but only down the road every such mode and so much more perfectly slow-mo oddity in me just carried onto you my readers about the overgrowth of summer foliage, and that which has never found the exact sound my eardrums coos in the noise but once as I put Radio into full mode attempting to #thistownwasbuiltonmilesofhope discover that stare and where it goes when Dulante pulled the switch without hesitating, you know the one when you let the ball go and bounce like a Radio signal and the alternative frequency stoned. I road my bike over that vast bridge where 75 crosses the Maumee to the front-lot of his Dad’s home; and with the old Chevette muffling #andI’llwaitaroundforonemoreday coursing my veins, Dulante’s Chevette, ripped off into the visions and the #andI’llwaitaroundforonemoreday anticipations and expectations in my head, “he got picked up Elliott – just take his car he’s over at Mercurio’s”… With only my temps and these visions of D saying, asking, geeking like, “wanna hit up Oakdale? Saw a boatload when I passed earlier.” Flew through and so close to soundtracking our lives ever captured in the swift side-talking attitude Dulante straight vanished to the sky like wet pavement somewhere in an afternoon of no humidity…. finally evaporated high magic and dusts in quicksilver lumpy molding fields staging the uneasy figuring out in the world, every time, for a second, then losing it, over and over again, right?! Lighthead sense the reality, turning distorted flashes buzzed my perspective there in the level with Dulante buzzed too; as I all marvelously skin the backroads as if I had physically grew up on the Eastside…
In a drive, in a memory of stones in my brother’s knees, into that bad dream .cruised Starr past their court headed to that which was his home; a different breed, different colors; Mercurio Webster’s; lived just over the river and almost supernaturally imposed #andIdareyoutogiveonereasontostay_andmaybeIwon’tgoaway that combed gypsy rotten upbringing the whole Eastside seemed; in a more down to earth image but closer to the people actually living out here in America than the billboards and company signs that mightily consume the main roads, Mercurio proved otherwise and but packed them streets and near river deceit and the thin SunOil air, and the little downtown across the river every-place with this round-balled skill that was just slick and usually coming out on yellow pit t-shirts, jackasses swaggering along walks with bandanas under ballcaps, and smooth jogging pants, and enormous jean pockets and even slacks; on purpose, workboots for excuses; so smooth repetitively hiking oversized pants but so they said with sad-shaped cars parked along curbs and pulled away blocks undercoating concrete in of all places the Northend filth, that thinking tough keeps them tough; so he streetcrack and windshield broken cars, cranked hats and saggy shorts and steps slower, took on the smell and dirty presence composed, faced them roads tough, whip through glares and hard looks the Eastside science won’t ever lie inside of the literatures of our fantastic dream.
“NOT unnecessary; but to drag dreams dream like a treasure on your back, a hiker’s knapsack….. towards impossible things was oh how I suppose to explain the sort of thing of how I could NOT tell Dulante that possibly… that, this might be the very real dream poets have reasoned, songs have sung, that every longing for the ‘why’ sought waiting for a return, the prophecy of a boy, and an answer to that long lost answer that fled so so long ago to that ends so so far away…” Mercurio


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